


Not For Pride Alone

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Kings, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Canon - Solves frequent reader complaint, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2003-09-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel and prince Earnur of Gondor face the Witch King of Angmar at the battle of Fornost.  Winner of the 2004 Mithril Award for Best Characterization/Ensemble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

T.A. 1975

Mortals Glorfindel had known. Some, like Tuor, he had even admired.

Eärnur of Gondor was not one of them.

Months earlier, the son of Eärnil II had come up the Rhûn to Mithlond with a fleet so great there was not anchorage enough in the bay for all his ships. Círdan had, it was said, greeted the sight with mingled relief and dismay; ships always delighted him, no matter that they were not of his crafting, but there were so many of them that his own people could scarcely get their vessels out to carry on the everyday business of the Havens. And Eärnur was as arrogant a captain as one might meet, though he knew nothing of sailing and spent half the voyage bent double over his chamber pot.

Had the mortal been one of his own people, some said, the Shipwright would have found a cure for that arrogance by setting Eärnur to scrape barnacles off the hulls of his fishing sloops. But then, Círdan _had_ summoned Gondor to Mithlond, as well as any in Arnor and the Elven realms who would heed the call, and his reaction was unreadable. Nor did he have much to say in his missive, save only what was needful. Círdan was one of few words, but when he summoned folk to war those who were wise heeded the call.

It was clear from the devices on the banners that fluttered in the northern breeze that this march belonged to Men. There were not many Elves able to answer the call, for the time of the great Elven kingdoms and their armies had passed. Only Lórien and Imladris could spare any warriors; no answer was forthcoming from Thranduil in Mirkwood.

“Of all those who would most benefit by the fall of the Witch King and his ilk,” complained Elladan, “you would think he would at least send one _gweth._ ”

“You do not know Thranduil’s mind,” answered Glorfindel. “He has never forgotten how his father fell at the Dagorlad, when Oropher charged the enemy and we did not go to his aid. Thranduil does not forget or forgive such slights. Nay, he will send no help, nor will he ask for any even when the enemy that poisons his realm becomes too great to bear.”

When told, Eärnur cursed the stubbornness of Elves, forgetting in whose presence he spoke. Glorfindel, always slow to anger, answered with a diplomatic smile and pointed out with a honeyed tongue that Gondor brought so great a force that it more than compensated for whatever paltry troop Mirkwood might have sent.

“And look yonder at the proud princes of Rhovanion who follow you out of allegiance and love, and look at the horses they bring out of the vale of Anduin. Such fine mounts we do not have in Lórien or Imladris,” he added, “nor did we have such in the days when Ereinion Gil-galad was our High King.”

A smile stole across Eärnur’s face. “Aye, and so shall our enemy learn that the might of Gondor is not something to be trifled with.” He looked back over his shoulder, south toward the ruins of the city of Lindon that had been the High King’s seat. Earlier he had explored the broken courts and roofless halls, making no secret of the fact that he thought little of what remained. Glorfindel, who accompanied him, made no comment save to a spearman who attempted to deface one of the pillars with graffiti.

The soldier was taken aback, as if unable to comprehend why Glorfindel should be so offended by his scrawling. Then again, if Eärnur’s response was any indication, perhaps the young mortal truly _was_ that ignorant.

“Why do you take such offense?” asked Eärnur. “These stones have stood untenanted for a thousand years or more.”

“A thousand years is nothing to the Eldar,” answered Glorfindel, “and I remember well when these courts were bright and filled with people. Would you be so forgiving if one of my _gweth_ scrawled so upon the ruins of Armenelos?”

Eärnur returned the query with a broad smile. “Ah, but Númenor lies under the waves now, making that an impossibility.”

In such moments, Glorfindel wondered that this mortal could be a descendant of Elendil, and farther back, of Elrond’s brother Elros. Eärnur seemed to exemplify all that was rash and petty in Men. _They say even Arvedui was thus, and so drowned by it._ Certainly Eärnur had plenty to say about his distant kinsman and rival claimant to the throne of Gondor, condemning him as rash and foolish, a prince of lesser worth.

“At least he could fight, when he was of a mind to stand his ground and not run,” he added sourly. “A pity he is so recently dead. Good warriors are always needed.”

In a private moment, one of Eärnur’s followers, a minor lord named Imrazôr, told Glorfindel otherwise. “Do not listen overmuch to his backhanded praise, friend. It’s easy enough to praise the dead, but my lord would scarcely be half so kind if Arvedui actually came riding into his camp.”

Later, when they retired to their tents for the evening, Elladan and Elrohir let slip the mask of careful indifference they had worn all that day and fumed.

“I like it not that that mortal insults us so before others,” said Elrohir. “Is it not enough that his common soldiers scrawl obscenities and relieve themselves upon our monuments?”

“Had you looked more closely, you would have seen other such obscenities or names, many of them very old,” Glorfindel replied. “It is ever the way of Men to leave their mark upon a place, even if it is crude. They fear being forgotten almost as much as they fear death.” He might have added that other mortal races scrawled upon ruins as well; the Dwarves, it was said, chiseled their names into the passageways of their mines or in small corners of their dwellings. And when Voronwë had returned with Tuor to Gondolin, he reported that Orcs had come upon the ruins of Vinyamar and defaced many of the stones with the marks of the Enemy. That saddened Glorfindel, for he had spent his childhood in Nevrast by the sea.

“If _ada_ had come,” added Elladan, “he would not have held his tongue so with Eärnur.”

“You underestimate your father’s tact,” said Glorfindel. “Elrond has ever been a diplomat. I have never seen him lose his temper, even when insulted by the Dark Lord’s own herald.” Yet Glorfindel conceded that even Elrond must have a breaking point, and the death of Ereinion Gil-galad and the ruin of Lindon had always been sensitive subjects for him. “You must remember that those who left Lindon did so willingly, knowing they were leaving their homes to ruin. A few now dwell in Imladris or in Mithlond, but most have gone over the Sea. If they do not dwell upon what becomes of their home in Middle-earth, then neither shall I.”

“Does it not also offend you?” asked Elrohir. “Surely it must, else you would not have spoken so to that spearman.”

“Aye, it offends me, but unlike you I have known several homes and they, too, have fallen into ruin.” Though he saw the question in their eyes, Glorfindel gave no answer. He had never told them he was the Balrog-slayer reborn, and they knew nothing of him save that he had served both Elrond and Gil-galad in the wars of the Second Age. To them, he was only Glorfindel of Imladris, named after the hero of Gondolin. “One must learn to relinquish such things.”

* * *  
The host followed the Lhûn northeast into Arthedain. Everywhere in the countryside that lay between the hills of Evendim and the Ered Luin, there were the signs of battle. Houses and crofts were abandoned, the people who dwelt in them gone, either fled or dead. Some villages they came upon were gutted, and among the ashes were the bones of people and livestock.

“All is not lost, friend,” said Imrazôr, pulling his mount up beside Glorfindel’s. “I am told that Aranarth son of Arvedui has gathered to him such people as would follow him. Somewhere in these hills they have sought refuge, though I couldn’t tell you where.”

“He has sworn you to secrecy then?” asked Glorfindel.

Imrazôr shook his head and grinned. “Nay, I am privy to no such secrets, and certainly not from the house of Isildur. I’ve never met Aranarth, or his sire. Rather, I discovered a few refugees among the camp followers who were able to tell me something of recent doings in this land.”

It was not Glorfindel’s habit to associate with mortals, for such friendships were doomed only to end in sorrow; only Tuor had he ever called friend. During the Last Alliance, obliged to fight alongside Men, he had nevertheless managed to hold himself apart from all those who did not belong to Elendil’s immediate circle, and that was how he preferred it. Losses were borne in equal share by the Eldar as by Men in those eleven years of fighting, but at least the camps of Elrond and Gil-galad were not rife with the filth and disease that ever seemed to be the lot of the Atani.

Even Turgon’s camp at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, where the mutilated dead piled up faster than they could be given burial, had not smelled half as bad as most of the mortals who flocked to Elendil’s banner. Of course, Glorfindel was careful not to let his revulsion show before Elrond, who was sensitive about his mortal lineage, or their allies. He had genuinely admired Elendil’s quiet, self-assured manner and had no wish to offend him.

Imrazôr he could grow to like, if he permitted himself. The young mortal had the air of Númenor about him, emanating strength and wisdom and joy, even as that land itself had been in the days before the Shadow fell upon it.

“My people are descended from the Faithful whom Elendil brought up out of the Sea in his seven ships,” Imrazôr explained. “We dwell by the bay of Belfalas, in the hills of Dor-en-Ernil, and the Sea is as near to our hearts now as it was when we dwelt in Andúnië, in the Land of the Star.”

A cloud passed over his face, and he frowned. “I regret the misdeed of Eärnur’s men in Lindon. My people have always held the Eldar in reverence and friendship, though your people don’t walk among us as freely as they once did. But I know Duilin; he has a good heart.”

“Duilin?”

“The spearman who defaced the pillar back in Lindon, that is his name,” Imrazôr explained. “As I said, he has a good heart. He didn’t know he was causing you offense.”

Glorfindel drew his mouth into a tight line. “For one named after a captain of Gondolin, he should learn better manners,” he said stiffly. “Not even a common Quendi _maethor_ would behave thus.”

Imrazôr was now truly abashed. He bowed his head, contemplating his saddlebow while answering, “Forgive me, Lord Glorfindel, but I’ve never heard of this Duilin of Gondolin, and if I haven’t then Eärnur’s man certainly hasn’t either.”

“He was chief of the House of the Swallow, and perished in the fall of Gondolin defending those who tried to escape.”

“I know only of the great heroes of that city, and of that not as much as I wish. I would know more, if you have a moment to instruct me. For my part, my father told me I am named after a famous captain of Númenor, yet I know little of him,” said Imrazôr. He was silent a moment, and thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s easier to keep one’s lore if one isn’t mortal.”

Glorfindel murmured an acknowledgement, then sent the mortal off to ride with Elladan and Elrohir; the _pereldar_ were more amicable to Men than he was, and would no doubt enjoy Imrazôr’s company. Already the young Man had given him much to think about.

* * *  
As they approached the hills of Evendim, the silence with which the host had been met suddenly became the noise of marauding bands of Orcs mounted on wargs. The enemy howled down at them from the slopes, their beasts slavering and snarling while they pelted the host with small stones and dung. Eärnur fumed at the insult and ordered his men to draw their weapons and close ranks.

Shields went up on the left flank, nearest the onslaught, while a troop of bowmen moved in with their steel Númenórean bows. A rain of arrows took several Orcs and their beasts on the hillside. As they collapsed more of the creatures moved in, and their missiles turned deadly.

Eärnur was not the sort of prince who would idly sit by while another captain led his troops into battle. Either his pride or inherent recklessness urged him on, or perhaps some fatal combination of both. The prince of Gondor insisted on leading the warriors who rode out to meet the enemy, and in a moment of forgetfulness presumed to lead the Elven host as well.

“We will follow as we will,” Glorfindel answered coldly. He could not fathom why these mortals were so eager to meet danger and deal out death when they themselves were in no immediate danger, but then, recklessness was not necessarily a trait limited to Men. At Dagorlad, Thranduil’s father had rashly led his host against the enemy without waiting for reinforcements.

As Eärnur rode away, Glorfindel turned to his party. “Strike the enemy from the flank, but do not engage them fully. This is but a feint, meant only to harass and demoralize us. Artano, you will bear Elrond’s banner. Elladan and Elrohir, you will ride with me.”

He led them against the enemy’s right flank, well away from the missile fire, and they drove a wedge into the unsuspecting ranks of Orcs and wargs. The enemy fell beneath the momentum of the Elven rush; those that swarmed the oncoming riders were swiftly cut down. Under the double onslaught, their ranks broke and the Gondorians rushed in to finish off those who did not flee.

Once Eärnur called his Rhovanion cavalry in to rout the enemy, Glorfindel ordered his warriors to pull back and regroup at the foot of a small, nearby hill. He rode among them, quickly scanning the ranks to see who was injured or had fallen. One clutched his shoulder as another rode up to see how severe the injury was, while an archer was dabbing a cut on his cheek; he grinned at Glorfindel as he rode past.

Half a second later, Glorfindel saw Elladan on the ground, bent over a fallen comrade. The trampled standard under the body told him it was Artano. He dismounted and went over to them as Elladan put his arms around Artano’s body and gently turned him over.

An Orc scimitar had sliced through his leather plate and mail like paper, shearing through the collarbone and down into the torso like a scythe, nearly cutting the standard bearer in two. Blood was everywhere.

Elrohir rode up, leaping from the saddle before his mount had come to a full stop, and ran to his brother and the body he held. Elladan shifted Artano’s corpse so Elrohir could pull the standard from under him. Glorfindel took up a corner of the blood-soaked material. It had been dark blue, emblazoned with the Star of Eärendil set in a white lozenge; now it was torn and discolored beyond recognition.

“They struck at him first,” murmured Elrohir.

“It is ever thus in battle,” answered Glorfindel. He bent to close Artano’s eyes and smooth the lines of pain and shock frozen on the dead Elf’s face. “At the Dagorlad, Gil-galad lost eight standard-bearers before the Dark Lord was brought low.”

Elladan, already stricken at the loss of his father’s standard-bearer, crumpled at the sight of the banner, and the Men who were nearby turned in bewilderment at the sight of an Elven warrior weeping.

* * *  
 **Notes:**  
Arthedain was overrun and the city of Fornost seized by the Witch King in T.A. 1974. Arvedui fled north, but was drowned in the ice of the Bay of Forochel the next year.

_gweth:_ (Sindarin) troop of warriors  
 _pereldar:_ (Quenya) half-Elven (plural)  
 _maethor:_ (Sindarin) warrior

Tolkien does not say whether Elladan and Elrohir were among the Elves of Rivendell who rode with Glorfindel to aid Eärnur, but as they were fully-grown by this point and were trained in the arts of war, there is no reason to suppose they could not have been among the warriors.

Imrazôr is the Númenórean who took Mithrellas, one of Nimrodel’s companions, to wife. In T.A. 2004, their son Galador became the first prince of Dol Amroth.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and prince Earnur of Gondor face the Witch King of Angmar at the battle of Fornost. Winner of the 2004 Mithril Award for Best Characterization/Ensemble.

Imrazôr started to enter the tent, but paused when he saw the closed faces and narrowed eyes of the three Elves seated within.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, and began to back away. Glorfindel, ignoring the displeasure of his two companions, swiftly called him back. Imrazôr ducked back into the tent with a little bow no doubt intended to mollify his hosts, two of whom did not bother to hide their annoyance.

“I will not stay long,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about the loss of your banner. I’ve spent the evening searching the camp for something—” He chewed his lip nervously under the unrelenting scrutiny of the two brothers. “Here, it is not much—the color is not quite right and I could find only paint such as sailors use to decorate their sails—but it is colorfast and will serve until you can acquire better.” In his anxiety, Imrazôr all but dropped the bundle of cloth, clay jar and brush at Glorfindel’s feet.

“And what of the standard-bearer who fell with the banner?” one of the brothers asked sharply. “You have not said anything of him?”

“Elrohir, speak gently,” Glorfindel warned. He turned to the mortal. “Imrazôr, we thank you for the gift. Your generosity in this time is most appreciated.”

Imrazôr’s eyes darted nervously to the brothers. “Forgive me, I am sorry for your loss. It’s a terrible thing when one of the Eldar falls, but….” He cleared his throat before continuing, “We had losses as well. We lost two spearmen, three Rhovanion horsemen and one of their mounts.”

Glorfindel nodded. “In our grief we neglected to ask how your host fared.” He spoke before Imrazôr could state the disparity himself and further inflame the brothers. “Would that your captain had offered similar condolences, you might have found better welcome.”

“Eärnur said nothing to you?”

“Aye, he spoke, but his words—” began Elrohir. Glorfindel gestured for him to be silent, prompting Imrazôr to wonder what Eärnur could have said to agitate the Elves so.

“He did not think we should have lavished so much care upon Artano’s burial,” explained Glorfindel. “It is true that the enemy will return, and they are foul enough creatures to seek carrion, but it is not our way to leave our dead lying.”

Imrazôr was visibly troubled. “Nor ours, I assure you. Again, forgive me, but other duties call and I must leave you. If you have need of anything, send one of your people to my camp. We fly the banner of the white swan.”

Glorfindel watched him leave, recalling a distant memory of a white swan’s wing on a field of blue. Imrazôr reminded him somewhat of Tuor. _If only his captain and prince, who is of Tuor’s line, were as humble and willing to serve._

“You did not tell him all,” said Elrohir.

He turned at the twin’s accusing tone. “Nay, I did not. He means well, and there is no reason to burden him with the knowledge. For all that you find Eärnur’s words offensive, there is a certain brutal truth to them. In the wars of the last Age, we saw such horror, and at the Dagorlad as well. Artano’s _fëa_ has gone to Mandos; he no longer has need of his _hröa._ ”

The brothers looked at him in amazement, wondering how he could say such a thing. He answered them with a sad smile. “You have not spent much time outside the valley of Imladris, you do not know how savage war can be. When you are fighting for your life, you cannot dwell on those who have fallen or what becomes of their _hröar._ ”

They had wrapped Artano in the shreds of Elrond’s banner, for it was damaged beyond repair and none could bear it again. There was no time to dig a grave, for the host must move on, but at the foot of the hills of Evendim the Elves raised a cairn for their dead. The Men who stood nearest kept a respectful if curious distance; only Eärnur did not seem to think such courtesy was necessary, and stood behind the Elves on his snorting destrier as they sang a lament.

“The enemy will likely come back,” he said when they were finished. “Our men, they are nearby, but in such times you ought not expect their graves to remain undisturbed.”

His words brought a chilly silence from the Elves. Glorfindel knew what Eärnur spoke was only a grim truth and not meant to offend—indeed, Turgon himself might have said such a thing in one of his darker moods—but the Man’s inherent tactlessness left him as cold as his companions were angry.

“Some mortals do not think on what they say,” Glorfindel told the brothers. “Their hearts are where they ought to be, yet their words fall short of the mark. Were he of lesser rank I would not hesitate to put Eärnur in his place, yet your father would tell you even as I will that in this time you must be calm and gracious, for we are no longer in a position to dictate to the lords of Men.”

His eyes dropped to the fabric that Imrazôr left and Elladan retrieved. Elrohir held the paint pot and brush as if debating whether or not to dump them in the refuse heap outside. The wool was the wrong shade of blue and would not take paint well. He sighed, regretting not having had enough foresight to pack a replacement. _Nay, it will not serve for a banner, but it was a gift given in the right spirit and I shall not refuse it._

* * *  
Slowly they crossed the low hills of Evendim. On the morning after the skirmish, a Rhovanion scout rode back to the camp with word that the hosts of Angmar were encamped upon the plain between Lake Nenuial and the North Downs. Eärnur was baffled by the news, for the walls of Fornost were said to be impregnable.

“The lord of Angmar is impatient,” said Mardil, who was one of Eärnur’s captains. “No doubt he wishes to engage us directly and sweep us back to the Lhûn.”

Eärnur clenched his fist against his thigh. “Then we shall make his impatience our gain.”

Although he was present for the council, Glorfindel was not consulted about the placement of the Imladris regiment until after the captains of Gondor and Rhovanion had laid out their strategies and decided the placement of the various companies. With two companies from Ithilien, the Elves were to circle around the hills to the north and surprise the enemy upon the rear.

For all his arrogance, Eärnur was a solid tactician and knew what he was about. Grateful he did not have to protest and thus embarrass the captains of the West, Glorfindel was content to do as he was bid. He left the Gondorian encampment with a nod to his hosts and returned to prepare his soldiers for battle.

On the way, he met Imrazôr, who was busily marshaling the men of Dor-en-Ernil as they armed themselves and scrambled to take their positions. “They’ve put you in the best position to rout the enemy,” he told Glorfindel. “Your archers will pick them off easily once they’ve been put to flight.”

Since their arrival at Mithlond, the Elves had heard little praise for their skill at archery, this because the steel bows for which the Númenóreans were so famed were so much more powerful than the wooden longbows of Lórien or Imladris. Nor was much heard of their resilience in battle, and their ability to bear weariness or wounds that would have incapacitated or perhaps killed an ordinary mortal, for though they and the Men of the West were of a height, the Eldar were of slighter build and were no doubt considered physically weaker.

“If you are in need of more archers,” Imrazôr was saying, “there is a small company of them from the lands of the Baranduin. A strange sort of half-Man they are, as children to our eyes, but they tell me they are subjects to the king in Fornost.”

“I have seen them,” answered Glorfindel. On their way to Mithlond, they had passed close to the fords of the Baranduin and glimpsed from afar the folk of which Imrazôr now spoke. Many among the _gweth_ were fascinated, for such beings they had never seen before, but Glorfindel urged them to leave these _periannath_ in peace.

“They heard word that the host of the king had come, but apparently they did not know that Arvedui is dead and the kingship of Arnor broken,” continued Imrazôr. “They know little of the doings beyond their own land, and the captains of Gondor and Rhovanion largely scorn them, but they shoot well for their small size. I’ve not heard of a place being made for them.”

Glorfindel had already witnessed the scorn and jibes shown to the creatures of the Baranduin, and it irked him that Men would judge others thus. He had no knowledge of them save what lore Mithrandir brought to Imladris; the Istar was apparently fond of their good-natured, rustic ways. “If they are competent enough with the bow, they may be of some use. How disciplined are they?”

“From what little I have seen of them, they are not professional soldiers,” replied Imrazôr. “Still, they have heart and seem more than willing to be directed. I would have them ride with us, but they have no mounts and cannot keep pace with us. Children they’re not, as they keep reminding us, but I’m loath to put them where they will almost certainly be killed.”

“If you send their captain to me, I will find some place for them.”

In his tent, Glorfindel pulled out the heavier of the two saddlebags he had brought. Wrapped in a protective layer of wool were several pieces of light but sturdy plate armor, packed against the likelihood of a major engagement. He had given orders to all his warriors to pack such armor, and in several tents he passed he glimpsed them assisting each other with the ties and buckles. The vambraces he could manage on his own, but he would have to get someone to help him with the breastplate and spaulders.

Once the armor was unpacked, he was surprised to find a small bundle still remained at the bottom of the saddlebag. Lifting it out, he undid the ties and unfolded the burlap to reveal another folded square of cloth, this one a faded dark green. _I do not recall packing a cloak or aketon in this color,_ he thought.

Shaking out the folds, he found himself staring at the worn appliqué of a golden flower picked out in metallic thread. By now, he was trembling, his hands unsteady as they retrieved the note that had fallen to the ground when he unfolded the banner.

_A grey bird came to me and told me you might have need of this._ The letter was unsigned, but Glorfindel knew the handwriting as that of his foster son. And he knew perfectly well who Lindir’s “grey bird” had been. _I had wondered at Mithrandir’s absence and his lack of counsel in this time._

Tucked within the note was another, this one written in a vaguely familiar hand. Glorfindel opened it and read it. _If you are reading this, then it has come to pass that you have come to the very door of the enemy. I know well the mind of Eärnur, but to you I credit the greater discretion in this strait. It may come to pass that a certain shadow will fall upon you both, yet now is the time to pay heed…._

When he was done reading, Glorfindel reread the note then carefully folded the note away. _Why did you not come yourself, grey pilgrim, rather than leave me to this task?_ He looked at the banner half-unfurled across his lap, at the four-rayed flower that stared back at him like an eye. It was one of the last relics of Gondolin, borne out of the ruins of that city and preserved at Imladris; Glorfindel wondered if Lindir had had Elrond’s permission to take it down from the library where it was displayed with other such relics, or if his son had done it by stealth.

_If I bear this now before me, I reveal to all of Arda the secret I have long harbored._ His eyes fell on the blue fabric spread across his cot, where the carefully applied white paint was drying. The result was passable, but to his eyes was more akin to graffiti than a heraldric device properly displayed. _Is it by your own design that no spare was sent with Elrond’s banner, or is it some cruel chance that forces my hand thus?_

Crushing the aged fabric between his hands, he brought it to his face as if trying to breathe in the air and memory of old Gondolin, and with it the memory of his past life.

* * *  
 **Notes:**  
Mardil is the same character who later becomes the first Steward of Gondor when Eärnur, then king, challenges the Witch King and disappears in T.A. 2050.

According to the prologue of _The Lord of the Rings,_ hobbit archers were present in the campaign against Angmar. Glorfindel certainly would have known of them long before his encounter with Frodo and his companions at the ford of the Bruinen.

Why Gandalf was not present during this particular conflict is a source of mystery. What was he doing at the time that he could not give direct aid against the Shadow’s greatest minion—or did he perhaps render aid by more indirect means not mentioned by Tolkien?

The idea of Lindir being Glorfindel’s foster son is a fan invention and based on an earlier story.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and prince Earnur of Gondor face the Witch King of Angmar at the battle of Fornost. Winner of the 2004 Mithril Award for Best Characterization/Ensemble.

“Tell me, _periannath,_ what are your names?”

The creatures looked up at Glorfindel with wondering eyes. There were six of them, in haphazard leather armor over shirts and woolen breeches. No shoes were upon their feet, which were covered in curly hair. The hair atop their heads was also curly, and their ears pointed as though they were distant cousins of the Eldar, yet they clearly were not. _What manner of creatures has Eru made?_ Glorfindel wondered. There were no songs or tales to tell of the making of such beings, and even Mithrandir had no answer when Elrond asked from whence the _periannath_ had come.

“From the river-lands near the Gladden Fields,” he said, “but beyond this I do not know, for they could tell me no more. The kings of Arnor gave them the lands of the Baranduin for their own and there they dwell in peace. I have heard them call themselves _kuduk,_ among other things.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said one of them, “but what’s a _periannath?_ ”

“Halflings,” answered Glorfindel. “That is what you are called.”

And they laughed amongst themselves, but it was a cheerful sort of laughter that made him smile even as he wondered what was so amusing. He waited patiently for an explanation, which came a moment later.

“Oh, no, sir,” said the dark-haired one who had spoken before. “We’re called hobbits.”

“Hobbits?” Glorfindel recalled that Mithrandir had once used such a word to describe the creatures. “Forgive me, I should have asked you what name you gave your people. I shall call you according to your desire, but you have not yet told me your names.”

“I’m Saradoc Boffin,” replied the first hobbit, who then promptly turned and began introducing the other archers in his company. “That’s Otho, my third cousin on my mother’s side, and his brother-in-law Tolman Gammidge but we just call him Tom, and….”

It quickly became apparent that these small creatures were obsessed with notions of kinship, and had woven amongst themselves a web of interrelationships that even the wisest lore master of the Eldar would be hard pressed to unravel. Glorfindel could only nod and smile as each hobbit was presented to him, and try his best to commit to memory their strange sounding names.

“Begging your pardon again, sir,” said Saradoc, “but I don’t think you’ve introduced yourself yet, and here we’re your guests.” His tone hinted that this was considered poor manners among his kind, and Glorfindel smiled, for a failure to name oneself in such a situation was also unseemly among the Eldar.

“You are right,” he answered, “yet so fascinated I am in meeting such folk that I have forgotten all propriety. Had we the time, I would offer you refreshment and a place to rest, but as we are about to march I can give you only my name. I am Glorfindel of Imladris.”

Saradoc blinked at him, while behind him the other hobbits murmured among themselves. “Pardon my asking, sir, but you’ve no other name?”

“I do not understand your question,” said Glorfindel. “I have an _essi,_ which is the name given to me by my father when I was born, but I have not used it in many centuries. I prefer to be called Glorfindel, which means _golden-haired_ in our ancient tongue.”

“If you don’t have a family name,” argued the one called Tolman, “how does anybody know who you’re related to?”

Glorfindel thought he understood now. “Among the Eldar we do not have surnames such as you bear. As my father’s son I am sometimes called _Elvanirion,_ but that is not the name of my House. Our families are small, for not all of our kind wed and we are slow to bear children.”

“No children?” asked Saradoc. “Ah, that’s a shame, sir.”

He did not know why, but at that moment Glorfindel found himself blushing. There was something so earthy, so forthright about these folk that he could not help but feel humbled. And old, aye, he felt very old in their presence, in a way he had never felt among the other mortal races.

Clearing his throat, he informed them that they would be marching with him. “We are to take the enemy from the rear flank and rout them. Our small numbers will ensure an element of surprise, and your bows will put the enemy to flight as they are harried from the fore.”

Saradoc gave him a knowing look. “We’re not wanted here, sir,” he said. “We said we’d send men, just as we’re supposed to do when the king needs us, but we’re not blind and we’re not stupid. We know how they look at us, and know what they say. They don’t want us here.”

Glorfindel’s smile was sympathetic. “Master hobbit,” he replied, “my people walked Middle-earth in the days before the Sun and the Moon, when the race of Men had not yet awakened. There was a time when this land was ruled by a High King of our people, and his kingdom stretched from the sea to the reaches of the Hithaeglir, that your people call the Misty Mountains. But those days have passed and mortal Men now scrawl profanity and relieve themselves upon our ruins. It may be that they do not desire our presence either, yet we are here all the same, and I _do_ desire your aid.”

“Well, since you put it that way, sir, we’ll be glad to go with you,” said Saradoc.

“Do not think that all Men dismiss you,” Glorfindel added gently. “It was a Man, Imrazôr of Dor-en-Ernil, who told me of your plight and urged me to send for you. He would put you among his own men, yet you are not mounted and he fears some harm will come to you should you be placed in the front ranks.”

The one called Otho gave Saradoc a look that said _I told you it was thus._ “I’d always said that Mr. Imrazôr’s a decent fellow. But we’re not children, sir, and if we go with you it’s not going to be with the baggage.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Well said, master hobbit. I shall place you with my own archers. Go now, and make yourselves ready to march.”

As they left, Elladan and Elrohir rode up to inform him that all had been made ready and it was time to march. Behind them, Náremir bore the makeshift banner; as he rode past with it, many Elves averted their eyes in shame that they had been brought so low.

Glorfindel cast a quick look at Asfaloth’s flanks, where he had secured a short pole with his banner tightly wrapped around it. Though he was tempted, he was resolved not to unfurl it save in a moment of greatest need. Had Elrond been there, no doubt he would have asked if Glorfindel was so ashamed of his House that he felt compelled to hide all tokens of the Golden Flower; the _perelda_ had asked several times before, but the answer was always the same, that Glorfindel would not presume to draw undue attention to himself, or to set his House above Elrond’s.

“The time of the great Houses of Gondolin and their splendor is gone,” he added. “We no longer have Houses that would make such display a necessity.” He would have added also that his father and brother had long ago been released from Mandos, as had all the other members of their House, and that it was his father and not he who had the right to bear the banner of the Golden Flower as the Lord of the House.

_And I do not wish to become a curiosity, to have people look on me as the only Elf in Middle-earth to die and return from the West. Such things are commonplace now in the Undying Lands, but here death is yet a mystery,_ he thought. _Whatever grace the Valar have bestowed upon me, I do not intend that it should set me above others._

To the north he led them, the hobbits riding behind his own archers as they skirted the shores of Lake Nenuial; they could shoot from the saddle, they told him, though they were not used to such big horses. They had not brought ponies, they said, only because they were not accustomed to riding. Glorfindel could see that in the way they clung to his archers as they passed; they would have to dismount before they could fire.

In the distance, he heard the sounds of battle as Eärnur engaged the host of Angmar. A cloud of dust rose from the south, and he sent a scout ahead to see how the battle was going. Mírimon returned a half-hour later with word that Gondor had put Angmar to flight with its superior numbers; most were fleeing toward Carn Dûm, but a few pockets of resistance remained as some of the Witch King’s forces turned and attempted to stand their ground. Glorfindel led his _gweth_ to the scout’s position to look for himself, then sent down most of his archers to aid the Gondorian cavalry.

The hobbit archers dismounted clumsily, but were very businesslike in making themselves useful. They remained close to the fringes of the battle where they would not be trampled and could take cover if necessary; however, Glorfindel heard them soundly berating the Elven archers for anticipating their shots.

“They are competent, if a bit slow to shoot,” commented Elladan.

Without taking his eyes off the action, Glorfindel nodded. “That is because they are not accustomed to killing others. It is one thing to shoot down a hare or a wild buck, but to take down a man or _yrch_ is something else entirely.”

Elladan’s next words were cut off by an unearthly shriek that set the hair on the back of Glorfindel’s neck on end. _I have heard that cry before…._ His memory took him back nearly two thousand years to the Dagorlad, to the minions in black whose shrill screams were enough to set hardened warriors to flight and despair. Raising himself up slightly in the saddle, his gaze skimmed the battlefield until he saw the figure in black, armored in cold iron and steel.

“What is it?” Elladan’s hands were clapped to his ears, and the fear that was the Nazgûl’s chief weapon showed itself on his face.

“The Witch King,” said Glorfindel. “He is turning, gathering his minions to him….” And a moment later he saw why, in Eärnur’s relentless charge. The prince of Gondor was not content merely to drive his enemy into retreat, but had mustered his Rhovanion cavalry to ride them down.

_I know well the mind of Eärnur. Not by the hand of man will the lord of Angmar fall, and to you I entrust the discretion to know when to act._ Mithrandir’s words came to him even as he saw Eärnur’s mount rear and bolt, and heard the Witch King’s unearthly laughter across the plain. Already some of the host of Angmar were turning, falling back upon the ranks of Gondor and Rhovanion that froze in terror in the shadow of their enemy.

Seizing the pole, Glorfindel sliced the twine with his knife and tossed the banner to his left hand even as he drew his blade with his right. The green cloth whipped and flew in the wind as he nudged Asfaloth’s flanks and plunged down the hill. Somewhere in the background he heard Elrond’s sons call after him, and others shouting in despair or amazement as he passed. He heard nothing of what they said and cared not what they saw, for in that moment the utmost need drove him. A white light filled his being and he perceived his enemy without fear.

* * *  
The tide of battle shifted with the turning of a single figure in black. Eärnur heard the shriek and felt ice-cold dread grip his heart, but with a snarl he thrust his fear away and plunged ahead. His mount, however, was not so stouthearted and reared before bolting in the opposite direction.

Seeing the haughty prince of Gondor brought to such humiliation, the Witch King threw back his armored head and uttered a laugh that made even his own minions quail in fear. For there was no opponent upon this battlefield who was worth his measure, none who could stand against him, and he laughed again at the hapless folly of his enemy.

And then, from the north a burning light assailed his eyes and he perceived a figure galloping headlong toward him. Blinding white like the mingled light of the sun and moon, it took the form of an Elf upon a white horse, wielding a sword in one hand and a banner in the other. _What is this annoyance?_ he thought, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. Only an Elda of Valinor was capable of such grace, and their like was all but extinguished in Middle-earth. He wanted to laugh in the face of this glowing menace, this immortal insect that he would crush like all others, yet his laughter died as he heard the Elf’s battle-cry.

“ _Nin á ista, rauco nuruhuinëo, ar har áva tulë, an nanyero i mancë Valarauco, túlina Mandoselló mahtië macil elyenna!_ ”

The banner caught a sudden wind and furled outward, revealing the four-rayed golden flower on its dark field, and for the first time in two thousand years the Witch King knew terror.

* * *  
 **Notes:**  
According to the language resource for Westron at Ardalambion, which draws on Tolkien’s own notes, the hobbits called themselves _kuduk,_ but for the sake of clarity I decided to go with Tolkien’s familiar, “translated” form.

_Elvanirion:_ son of Elvanir. The name of Glorfindel’s father is a fan invention; Tolkien never gave any information on the subject.

Asfaloth: In an earlier story, it is established that Glorfindel always rides a white horse, which he always names Asfaloth.

Glorfindel’s battle-cry is in Quenya and translates as: “Know me, demon of death-shadow, and come not near, for I am he who hewed the Balrog, come from Mandos to wield a sword against thee.” Thanks to both Nath and Aerlinnel for the battle-cry and accompanying translation.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and prince Earnur of Gondor face the Witch King of Angmar at the battle of Fornost. Winner of the 2004 Mithril Award for Best Characterization/Ensemble.

The Witch King did not stand his ground, but bolted. His minions followed, shrinking in terror as Glorfindel turned his gaze toward them. A hush had fallen across the battlefield so profound he could hear his own ragged breathing and the flapping of the banner he held in his left hand. All eyes were on him and he knew it. The exultation he had briefly felt was beginning to give way to exhaustion and self-consciousness, for whatever power he had shown forth drained him, and he was not accustomed to being the focus of such attention.

A shadow crossed his vision, a Man on an unruly mount. Glorfindel nudged Asfaloth forward, putting himself in the Man’s path.

“Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land,” he said. “Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.”

Eärnur chafed, averting his eyes from the glow that surrounded the Elf even as he tried to shove past him. “Do not hinder me, Elf,” he growled.

Glorfindel sheathed his sword to leave a hand free, and seized Eärnur’s reins to hold him fast. “Whatever doom awaits him, it is not for you to deliver it.”

“And I suppose _you_ would slay him and take that glory for yourself,” the Man snarled.

“If you think I desire glory, then you know me not at all, mortal,” Glorfindel answered coldly. “But if you so desire to meet your doom, then I will not hinder you further.” And in that moment a vision came to him of Eärnur before a massive black gate, challenging the Witch King and being swallowed by shadow. Slowly he released his grasp on the other’s reins. “Go and face him, if that is your will, but know that if you do you shall never walk again among the living.”

* * *  
Night fell on the camp. A cold wind stirred out of the north, ruffling tent flaps and whipping banners upon their poles. Outside, men moved over the field by lantern light, collecting their dead and wounded; the corpses of the enemy were piled in a ditch at the edge of the encampment, and already the wolves were snarling and worrying at their carrion feast. It was not a night to be out alone.

Glorfindel was too weary to eat the food set before him. After releasing Eärnur, he had folded his banner back upon its pole even as Elladan, Elrohir and the warriors of his _gweth_ rode up to him. Amazement and perhaps a little fear was in their eyes, for though most of his _gweth_ did not know Quenya, the sons of Elrond were versed in that tongue and had doubtlessly translated all he said.

All through the end of that day, as camp was made and the tents raised, no one spoke to Glorfindel, watching him instead with eyes that wondered at the being that, hidden from their gaze so long, had come with them. _It is as I feared,_ he thought. _They will regard me now as if I was a Maia of Valinor and never again look me in the eye when they speak. It is no wonder Finrod Felagund did not ask Manwë to return to Middle-earth in my place._

At last, a voice broke the uneasy silence. “Glorfindel, you—you are certain you are not hungry.”

He shifted on his cot to look at Elladan. “ _Pen-neth,_ I could not lift anything to my lips long enough to eat.” Once the battle ended and he took inventory of the field and those under his command, he could barely stay upright long enough to make it into his tent. Now he lay prone, stripped of his armor, his limbs heavy and trembling with exertion.

“ _Pen-neth,_ indeed!” exclaimed Elrohir. “We knew you were old, but not that you had come out of Gondolin itself.”

“It is only my _fëa_ that is old.” Glorfindel let Elladan prop him up against a makeshift pillow and begin to feed him. Not wanting to be babied, he weakly lifted his hand to assist, only to have the younger Elf gently push him away.

“You did this enough times for us when we were small,” said Elladan.

Glorfindel sighed and resigned himself to Elladan’s ministrations. His eyes went to Elrohir. “As I was saying, it is only my _fëa_ that is old. My _hröa_ is actually much younger than that. I am many centuries younger than your father.” He winced as a thought came to him. “Ai, I am even younger than that noisy crow Erestor.”

Elrohir took a seat on the tent’s single camp stool. “You told us once that you were an Elda of Valinor, but that was not true, was it?”

Glorfindel saw the disbelief on his face, the surprise that one of the Eldar might be capable of lying. In between bites of the bread Elladan was feeding him, he smiled and shook his head. “I did not lie to you, if that is what you fear. I was born in Tirion, in the time of the Trees, and crossed the Helcaraxë with Fingolfin’s host.”

“But the rest of it—”

“Was an omission, not a lie. I did not see fit to tell you the rest of it, though your father has many times urged me to do so.”

Elladan’s hand froze as it brought up another morsel. “ _Ada knows?_ ”

“Of course Elrond knows. He was with the High King when I arrived in Lindon and was presented in secret to Gil-galad. Were it my choice, I would not have told anyone, but Círdan anticipated me and sent a message to Lindon. I had not told him either, but the Shipwright sees things beyond the ken of others.” He glowered at Elladan. “If you expect me to leap up like a trained dog and snatch that bit of meat from your hand, you will find yourself sadly disappointed. I deem I have already given you enough spectacle for one day.”

Elladan meekly popped the morsel of meat into his mouth. In truth, Glorfindel now felt much stronger and probably could have sat up to feed himself, but realized he enjoyed being pampered.

“Who else besides _ada_ knows?” asked Elrohir.

“With my leave, Elrond told your mother when they were wed. Lindir also knows, and Mithrandir.”

“ _Lindir_ knows?” sputtered Elrohir. “You told him and not us?”

“Peace,” Glorfindel barked. “I did not tell him anything, you impatient _filit._ I had only been in Middle-earth a few decades when I found and adopted him; I had not yet fully mastered my new _hröa_ or the fine art of concealing what I did not wish to be seen. He saw me with the eyes of a child that sometimes perceive things adults cannot. And through the centuries he watched me very closely, marking all I said and did. He guessed the truth long ago.”

“But you did not tell us?”

Glorfindel lifted an eyebrow at the sulky look Elrohir gave him. “And for what reason would I have mentioned such a thing?”

Elrohir’s jaw dropped. “All those tales you and _ada_ told us about the Last Alliance, about those dark times when all hope seemed lost—do you not know how the forces of the Shadow would have quailed in terror to see Glorfindel of Gondolin bearing down upon them? Had you done there what you did today, perhaps—”

“The war would have taken a different path, one that did not lead to the High King’s death? Is that what you are implying?” Glorfindel gently pushed Elladan and the platter of food aside and sat up, even as Elrohir began to insist that that was not what he meant. “Until this day, I did not even know such power was in me. Long I had known there was in me some grace that shone forth on occasion, but this is something you have also seen in your lady grandmother, who has also walked under the light of the Trees in the Undying Lands. I did not think anything strange of it.

“And as for your charge that I might have turned the tide of darkness at the Dagorlad and so spared Gil-galad his fate, it is not for any of us to say that that would have been so. There is only one among the Valar who sees the fates of all who are or will be born, and his knowledge he does not share with others. And as the servant of your father and the High King, it has never been my place to seek my own glory, or my place to take it from them.”

“But you are a _legend,_ Fin,” insisted Elrohir.

Glorfindel looked questioningly at him, lifting his eyebrow at use of the pet name; neither twin had used it since they were old enough to say his name properly, nor would he suffer it. “There were many brave warriors who perished when Gondolin fell, either holding our broken defenses or helping others flee. But your father explained to me once that sometimes one fallen warrior can stand for all, if he has a grave and the others do not.”

“ _Ada_ told us once that he saw the ruins of Gondolin,” said Elladan. “He visited the grave at Cirith Thoronath also. It was green and flowering, he said, though that country was barren and cold, and there were Eagles.”

“I have heard from him the same tale. He told me that sometimes people create shrines out of small moments of hope or despair, and that which they remember is imbued with great spiritual power. In this we are no different than mortals with their great monuments.

“I chose to remain hidden all these centuries because the individual that I am did not wish to be thus enshrined. I am not so proud as to revel in the awe and worship of others,” Glorfindel explained. “I revealed myself only to give hope to others in the face of overwhelming terror and despair, and put forth what strength I had because no one else could have done so. I do not regret doing so, though I do not wish to have to bring forth such power again.”

Elrohir frowned. “What you said to Eärnur, was it true or was it merely to keep him from pursuing the Witch King?”

“That is Mithrandir’s warning, not mine. I was but the messenger,” answered Glorfindel. “But something tells me that if Eärnur meets the Nazgûl again, he is doomed.”

Suddenly drained, he let himself droop back onto the cot. “A Maia or Vala I am not, and this day has taxed me.” He lifted a hand and lightly ruffled the hair of Elladan, who was closest. “But now I may tell you such tales of Gondolin as you will not find in your father’s library, and such tales as he probably would not wish you to hear in any case.” He let his hand fall to the side of the cot as sleep began to claim him. Someone covered him with a thick cloak; he did not see which of the twins it was.

He heard himself chuckle under his breath; the sound was heavy and distant. “Such tales,” he mumbled. “Poor Ecthelion and…poor Egalmoth…could tell you such things….”

* * *  
 **Notes:**  
Finrod Felagund is the only other Elf Tolkien ever mentions as having returned from Mandos. And like Glorfindel, Finrod’s heroic death earned him both early release and a spiritual grace far above that of other Eldar.

_filit:_ (Quenya) little bird


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and prince Earnur of Gondor face the Witch King of Angmar at the battle of Fornost. Winner of the 2004 Mithril Award for Best Characterization/Ensemble.

As they broke camp the following morning, the Elves felt the tension in the air. Eärnur himself did not come, but the messages he sent made it clear he was unforgiving of his humiliation the day before.

“Let him sulk,” Glorfindel told his followers, “for he is likely to be cross for several more days or weeks yet and we will not tarry here merely in the hope of finding him in a more amicable mood.”

To the prince’s messengers he did not make much effort to curb his words. “We have done what we came here to do. Our charge is fulfilled and we are thus free to make the journey home. If this does not suit Gondor, there is nothing further to be done about it. Let your prince consult Imladris if this offends him, but know that I am Elrond’s designated voice upon this field. All that I have said and done he will confirm.”

Eärnur was the only individual, mortal or Eldar, who did not tread softly around Glorfindel. To varying degrees, all were now apprehensive in his presence; even Elladan and Elrohir seemed somewhat anxious. The mortals Glorfindel could ignore, for they had looked strangely upon the Eldar ever since their arrival and he would soon be quit of them, but he would not tolerate it from his _gweth,_ telling them as much when a handful of them came and knelt before him with the request to ride under his banner on the way home.

“I am thinking,” he said crossly, “that whatever wind blew out of the north last night, it has afflicted you with some madness. Get off your knees, Alagos, and you also, Hathol and Tuilinn. You are going to ruin perfectly good leggings if you persist in that behavior.”

“My lord,” protested Alagos. “We only ask—”

“I heard your request the first time and the answer is no. You may not like the makeshift banner, but you are the servants of Elrond of Imladris even as I am and will ride under his colors no matter how patched or faded or ill-seeming his banner may seem to you. I will do the same, and do it gladly. If you cannot abide the shameful gazes of a few roadside squirrels or other beasts of the field, then perhaps a blindfold would help. Go now, and do not let me hear of this again.”

The three warriors made a hasty retreat, joining their comrades in breaking down tents and packing up supplies. In the midst of their activity, Imrazôr strode into the camp wearing a concerned look.

“Has Eärnur already given you leave to go?” he asked.

“We do not wait on his word,” answered Glorfindel. “Our task here is done and we may go as we will.”

“Of course,” Imrazôr said hastily, “though I did not think it would be so soon. Eärnur is sending out patrols to make certain the men of Carn Dûm don’t return. I would have thought you might join them.”

“Our company was not requested for such a venture.”

Imrazôr nodded. “Then this is where we make our farewells, friend, though before you leave and if you do not find it rude of me to ask, I am curious to know what you said to the enemy yesterday. I don’t know Quenya and have heard various translations of what you shouted. Some are saying you are a Maia in disguise, others that you’ve vowed to ride to Carn Dûm and single-handedly lay waste to that stronghold.”

Glorfindel arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I didn’t say I put stock in any of those stories, as only a few among our captains speak Quenya and no one could say for certain what you’d said in all that noise. But then one of your own men told me you are Glorfindel of Gondolin reborn, and I still don’t know whether to believe him or shrug it off as I’ve done with all the other tales.”

“If an Elf tells you something,” said Glorfindel, “it is never a lie.” He watched the mortal’s eyes widen and waited for the inevitable flood of questions, for Imrazôr knew the tale of the fall of Gondolin well enough to know his story.

True to his expectations, Imrazôr answered with a question, but it was only one. “A great hero of the First Age and you didn’t slay the Witch King?”

“Because it was not my place to do so,” replied Glorfindel. “He cannot be slain by my hand or yours. He and his minions will not return to this land. There may be some small pockets of resistance, but the might of Angmar is broken, and for the work of these many weeks or months to come you do not need us.”

“You fought bravely,” said Imrazôr. “Unlike others, I am not ashamed to say it.”

“Nevertheless we must leave you. Our own borders we will watch, and I think Aranarth and his people will aid you, though I am not certain he will take up his father’s kingship. As for our part in this, the time of Men is come. If I did not know it before, I am certain of it now.”

Imrazôr cast a furtive glance back toward the Gondorian encampment, as though Eärnur might be listening. “Do not let any ill feelings toward one mar your opinion of us all.”

Glorfindel smiled. “Rest assured, _mellon,_ that you and I part as friends. I name you _Elvellon,_ Elf-friend, and I think we may meet again, your people and mine, though perhaps not for some time to come. Yet for now, this door closes upon us and we must part ways. _Namárië._ ”

* * *  
On the road home, Glorfindel found himself with some unexpected traveling companions. The hobbits also saw they were no longer needed and so broke camp with all the boisterous clattering and shuffling that seemed to be the hallmarks of their race. Not long after, the Elves found them jogging alongside their ranks wearing lopsided smiles along with their gear.

“Since we’re all going in the same direction,” said Saradoc, “we thought maybe you’d need a guide.”

Glorfindel looked down in disbelief. “A _guide,_ master hobbit? I have journeyed those lands many times, well before there were hobbits to ask if I wanted directions. I certainly—”

“Aye, but have you been in the Shire lately, sir? Well, then it’s obvious you’d get lost right quick without somebody to guide you. Why, even that fellow Gandalf, he’s been everywhere, but you point him toward Michel Delving and he ends up in Tuckborough.”

He bit back the temptation to remind them they were talking about a Maia of Valinor, but reined in his words. Even his own _gweth_ did not know Mithrandir’s true nature, and he somehow doubted the _periannath_ knew what a Maia was. “If you are equating me with that shaggy grey wanderer….”

“Oh no, sir. You’d not get lost on a dark night, what with you lighting up like that,” Saradoc answered innocently. “Do all Elves do that, sir?”

“No,” he answered, leaning forward with a smile. “Only special Elves, and only when they are irritated by Nazgûl or overbearing hobbits.”

Saradoc was so flustered he could not manage a properly tart reply, but was at ease again when Glorfindel bent and helped him mount Asfaloth. “Only because,” Glorfindel said lightly in his ear, “I am not going to slow my pace simply on account of you not being able to keep up with me.” Behind him, the other members of his party also took hobbits up behind them.

It was never his intention to enter hobbit lands, a countryside that they called the Shire, whether they invited him or no. He listened with mild curiosity as Saradoc told him about his cozy burrow with the bright blue door, nodding now and then to show he was listening, and then when Tolman and another hobbit began describing their vegetable gardens. Some of it he had already heard before, as Mithrandir had once gone into great detail about hobbit life for Elrond’s benefit one winter evening and Glorfindel had unfortunately found himself a captive audience. And like the hobbits, Mithrandir had droned on as if the planting of carrots and turnips was the most fascinating topic in all of Arda.

Glorfindel could not truly say that he was bored or impatient to be quit of the hobbits, for their good cheer was infectious and brought laughter to his company such as he had not expected to find on this march. For two days they remained with the Elves, riding a leisurely path southeast from the hills of Evendim along the banks of the Baranduin, that the hobbits called the Brandywine.

At midmorning on the third day, they reached the bridge that was the northern boundary of the Shire. Here Glorfindel called a halt to their progress and dismounted to lift his passenger from Asfaloth’s back and set him gently on the ground.

“How now, sir?” asked Saradoc. “We’ve a ways to go yet before we reach my burrow. You are stopping in for tea, aren’t you?”

Glorfindel gave him a sad smile. “As generous as your offer is, and as much as I should like to meet your wife and children and many relations, we could not enter your land without drawing such attention to ourselves as would greatly disturb your neighbors. Nay, we will part here, with you safely on the borders of your own country, and make our farewells, for you should not have strange folk passing hither and thither through your quiet land.”

“Well,” huffed Saradoc, looking downcast, “the Men don’t seem to mind it.”

“But we are not mortal Men, master hobbit, and will not tread where we do not belong. Enough courtesy we have to know better. Now then, _a vanta as márë órelyar! Nai eleni siluvar antalyannar,_ and may your land remain free of trespassers for many Ages to come. _Namárië._ ”

“Well, that’s a pretty thing to say. Is it Elvish?”

Glorfindel nodded. “It is Quenya, our high tongue, and means farewell. The other means _Go with good hearts. May the stars shine upon your faces._ We say it in parting.”

Saradoc contemplated this for a moment, then answered, “Well, we just shake hands when we go our merry way and leave it at that.”

A moment later, Glorfindel found his hand being vigorously pumped up and down by a much smaller one. He stood then at the head of the Baranduin bridge, watching the hobbits recede into their familiar countryside and wondered yet again what manner of creatures Eru had made.

* * *  
On the steps of Imladris, Glorfindel caught the eye of his foster son and held it for a moment, long enough for Lindir to understand that he had found the banner and note and there would be discussion over it.

Still dressed in his travel-stained armor and bearing the carefully wrapped banner under one arm, he ordered his son to follow him into the library. He would answer no questions along the way, leaving Lindir to fret and bite his underlip in nervous anticipation. Although he rarely lost his temper, an angry Glorfindel was one to be reckoned with, and Lindir did not like being on the receiving end.

Once inside the library, Glorfindel instructed Lindir to close the doors and then join him by one of the tables.

“Now open the package and tell me what you find,” he said.

Lindir slowly undid the twine and unwrapped the cloth covering. His hands were trembling slightly, for Glorfindel’s eyes were on him the entire time and he knew not what reprimand his foster father was about to make. At last, when the faded green cloth was uncovered, he answered in a soft, barely audible voice, “It is your banner.”

“And who gave you permission to take it down from the wall where I left it hanging?”

Lindir bit his lip, then drew himself up and answered, “No one gave me permission, but I acted on the counsel of Mithrandir, who instructed me that you might well have need of it.”

“Do you always listen thus when a grey bird speaks to you?” Glorfindel wanted to know.

His foster son was no coward, meeting his eyes as he made his reply. “Mithrandir’s counsel has never been wrong. If I have erred, I did so because I perceived there was much wisdom in what he counseled me to do.”

At this, Glorfindel relented. “Aye, there is much wisdom in Mithrandir, and,” he added gently, “I listen to him, too, _pen-neth._ ” Then he smiled and held out his arms. “I am not wroth with you.”

Lindir gave him an uncertain embrace. “If you are not wroth with me,” he said crossly, resting his head on Glorfindel’s leather clad shoulder, “then why do you make me think so?”

“I said I was not wroth, _not_ that I was pleased.” Pressing a kiss to his son’s brow, Glorfindel released him and carefully shook out the folds of the banner. “Bring me the footstool there. I cannot fault you for heeding Mithrandir’s counsel, for I would have done the same, but it does not please me that you did not ask Elrond’s leave first. This banner belongs now to him, and it is not for you to take things that do not belong to you.”

“If you have flown it, then all of Arda knows it belongs to you and not to Elrond.” Lindir’s face brightened, even as a gruff Glorfindel stepped onto the stool and slid the banner’s grommet holes through the hooks on the wall so it could hang. “Ai, you _did_ fly it. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Impudent pup—”

Lindir chuckled in delight, even as Glorfindel glowered and tried to maintain a stern face.

After a moment, Glorfindel let his frown relax. Under the circumstances, he could not remain sour with his foster son. “This once I carried it into battle, for there was need,” he explained, “but I will not do so again. The Valar did not send me back to Middle-earth to flaunt the badges of my House.”

A smile curled his lips as he continued, “Perhaps I should thank Mithrandir for whispering in your ear, and you for heeding him, for once I grasped my banner and held it aloft, I seized both my past and present in a single moment and saw that I needed no such tokens to be whole. In time, others will see that my charge is as it has ever been, to serve Elrond and his family as I did his fathers in Gondolin. And to that I will hold until such time as he deems I should leave him and go to the Havens.”

“Our time here in Middle-earth is coming to an end,” said Lindir. “Many have already gone.”

Glorfindel reverently touched the hem of the banner before stepping down. “But it is not yet past, and he knows better than to send me into the West before I am ready to go. I will not leave Imladris when each day the minions of the Shadow grow bolder. Elrond is not Turgon; I serve him because the Valar will it, and because it is also my own desire. He may not command me thus if I am not willing to leave his side.”

“And does our lord know how stubborn you mean to be?”

“He would soon discover it,” replied Glorfindel. Another smile, more wistful than the last, touched his lips. “I have often thought that if I had not died I would have stayed with Tuor. There were some, like Galdor of the Tree, who went to Balar and thence over the Sea after the War of Wrath, but I like to think I would have remained at the Havens of Sirion with Tuor and Idril.”

A knock at the door kept Lindir from answering. Before Glorfindel could instruct whoever was on the other side to leave him in peace, the door opened and Erestor stood on the threshold.

“It would seem,” drawled the advisor, “that in the midst of your joy to see your son again, you have forgotten to dismiss your _gweth._ Your poor warriors are still standing at attention in the courtyard, in the freezing cold, no doubt wondering if you intend to return at all this day.”

“Then why do you not go out there and tell them they are at ease?”

Erestor raised a sharp eyebrow. “You may be the _balrog-dagnir_ reborn, but you are obviously still the same lackwit you were when you left. Your warriors will not take direction from me or any other, so well have you trained them. If you want them dismissed, you will have to order them yourself.”

Always when he went on campaign or any prolonged patrol, Glorfindel missed the other’s good-natured barbs, though he would never admit this aloud. “Has anyone told you that you are still a noisy crow? As for the other part, I will not ask you whose tongue is loose among my warriors. Tell them I will join them presently.”

“Am I your messenger now, _malchír?_ And here I would have welcomed you home, but ai, how you abuse me so.” Grinning, Erestor ducked from the doorway and retreated down the corridor before Glorfindel could frame a retort.

_Now there is one person who will not stare goggle-eyed at me in awe when I pass._ “Insufferable _quáco,_ ” he muttered.

“You should not insult each other so,” said Lindir.

Turning, Glorfindel quirked an eyebrow at his foster son. “Who says I am insulting him? The ways of friendship are sometimes stranger than you know. I called my own brother that in Gondolin.”

“You disliked your brother?”

Glorfindel laughed at this. “Nay, I was very fond of Nárello.”

* * *  
“The kingship of Arnor is broken,” said Erestor. “Word has come from the Dúnedain. They have neither the numbers nor the drive to reoccupy Fornost.”

Elrond nodded grimly at this news. “The _palantíri_ of Annúminas and Amon Sûl have been lost. Aranarth has arranged for the other heirlooms of Arnor to be left in my keeping. He will take the title of Chieftain of the Dúnedain until such time as he or one of his bloodline is ready to reclaim the kingship. He is young yet and in time may decide to assert his rightful place.”

Doubt yet lingered in Elrond’s voice, and they knew Aranarth likely would not attempt to retake his father’s kingdom. Though some of the royal infrastructure would remain in place, the great kingdom of Men in the north, founded by Isildur two thousand years ago, was ended. Glorfindel had seen and sensed as much during the campaign, for while some of the Dúnedain had emerged to join Eärnur’s host, Aranarth himself had not come, keeping the greater part of his people in Forlindon.

“I fear now for the line in the south,” Glorfindel said. “When his father passes, Eärnur will be the next king of Gondor. A terrible doom hangs over him.”

“You think he will attempt to avenge the insult done him by the Witch King?” asked Elrond.

“I know the minds of such Men,” answered Glorfindel, “and how they wear their pride. It is like armor to them. A warning I have given him, but those such as he do not always listen, following their own path even unto ruin. If he dies without an heir, the last strongholds against the Shadow will crumble.”

Elrond’s expression was wistful, peering into the distance as if he saw something the others could not. “There is time yet,” he said softly. “ _Ú-vethed ennas estel._ And there is always hope.”

* * *  
 **Notes:**  
 _balrog-dagnir:_ (Sindarin) Balrog slayer  
 _malchír:_ (Sindarin) golden lord  
 _quáco:_ (Quenya) crow  
 _Ú-vethed ennas estel:_ (Sindarin) Without end there (is) hope. Thanks to Ithildin for the translation.


End file.
